


Night-Blooming Jasmine

by iloveyoudie



Series: What A Diff'rence A Day Makes [1]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, Episode Related, Feelings Realization, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Max's Fantasy Garden, Morse's Ongoing Existential Crisis, Season/Series 06, Season/Series 06 Spoilers, impromptu dates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2019-12-18 08:28:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18246131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iloveyoudie/pseuds/iloveyoudie
Summary: Days turned into weeks and weeks into months and the doctor's address ended up creased and flattened into a corner of his wallet until he needed it for something more purposeful.





	1. P Y L O N

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, series 6 was super shippy for Max/Morse fans, huh?

“Oh!” Debryn smiled as soon as he saw Morse on his doorstep and it wasn’t the reaction that the policeman had been expecting. Morse’s eyes were drawn to the cake knife clutched in the man’s hand as if he were caught in the act of a deadly altercation and the doctor’s eyes followed his gaze down to it, before letting out a small laugh, “It’s nothing sinister. I was just taking a seed cake out of the oven.” 

Morse couldn’t help a bemused smile as he took the momentary pause to absorb the doctor’s unusually casual appearance. Besides the obvious apron and open collar, Debryn was noticeably more relaxed than usual. Here in the sun under a verdant trellis of flowering vines, Morse had a hard time imagining this rather delighted seeming man delivering any of the usual biting morbidity he was used to. The pathologist had a laugh in his smile, dimples he’d never quite noticed before (yet suddenly found himself fascinated by) and lacked the stiff restraint of his profession while he was here in his own domain. The smell of baking cake that followed him out onto the front stoop rounded out the pleasant picture rather completely. It was new and strange and far from unwelcome. Since Morse’s exile to Woodstock, it felt like he hadn’t seen a friendly face in ages and even if this visit wasn’t entirely unselfish, he wanted to enjoy while it lasted. 

“Come on in,” Max finally waved the knife and turned, stepping into the low doorway and down into his home for Morse to follow. 

There was a dead child in the current case, certainly nothing as gruesome as the Blythe Mount affair years before, but he knew that Max never liked to see children die. No one did, of course, but Morse hadn’t expected seed cake and aprons and warm welcomes as a response. He thought, as he ducked his head under the lintel and followed, that perhaps fresh baked goods were a better response to trauma than anything he would have come up with on his own, namely the bottom of a bottle. 

“I’ve got some sun tea chilling,” Debryn briskly moved down his crimson walled front hall, “If you’re thirsty.” 

“Thanks,” Morse was a bit slower, taking a moment to absorb the details while he could. The cottage was simple and efficiently laid out, with rooms neatly sectioned off from the main hall in predictable and reassuring simplicity. The low ceiling and narrow hall made it feel like it should be a dark space, but as they passed open doorways, Morse found sunlight cutting brightly through the dim and dappling over the rich interior colors as pale billowing curtains destroyed any lingering gloom with every gust of fresh breeze. It wasn’t entirely what he had expected from the doctor, but seeing it all now he wasn’t sure why he hadn’t. Of course he would need some sort of respite from the cold sterility of the morgue. His home was light and warm and pleasant and made Morse yearn for a place like it of his own. 

The kitchen came upon him in a burst of air and sunlight. Window sills lined with pots of aloe, herbs and african violets were the only things that broke up the golden beams that poured through the home's back windows. The appliances were dated enough for him to know they were solid and reliable and it made Morse feel a bit like he’d gone back home, back to a time when things were simple and innocent and his mother still hummed and baked and he was small enough that he needed to tiptoe to dip his fingers into pies on the sly when they had been put out to cool. But Max was not his mother, nothing like her in fact, and he found as he watched the man move across the counter space with the hot seed cake in hand, that it wasn’t much different than watching him work in the morgue; brisk, focused, and enviably calm. 

“So it’s been Woodstock then, hm?” 

“Hmm?” Morse found himself humming in response. He’d gotten absorbed in watching Max set the cake aside and then produce a golden pitcher of tea. He carefully began to cut half a lemon into precise slices to add. 

“Where you disappeared off to,” Max glanced up at him, now holding an actual knife and looking far more himself with a blade in hand than without, “And in uniform no less.” 

Morse looked down at himself and smoothed his palms over the pressed navy coat with a frown, “Yes, well, they closed the CID shortly after I was assigned. I’m the only officer in Woodstock at the moment.” 

“You may not want to hear it, but it suits you,” Max said as he dropped the lemon slices into the tea. He smiled over at Morse and the sergeant felt a bloom of warmth, “The blue anyway. You’ve always looked good in blue,” Debryn said it as easy as he would give the time of day, “and one has to always appreciate a man in uniform.” 

Morse hadn’t expected the compliment. He’d been viewing his police trappings as a ball and chain for quite a while now and this was the first time he’d thought to look down at himself and wonder if he should have some pride in it. 

“Must be lonely,” Debryn continued, “Is it boring out in the sticks by yourself?” 

“I’ve my music,” Morse shrugged. It _was_ lonely but he couldn’t quite admit to it so readily. Loneliness was a companion in itself, and one he'd gotten used to, but bemoaning it would bring down the perfectly curated mood that the doctor seemed to exist in here in his home, “And there’s plenty of lost horses to wrangle. Minor burglary. Had runaway goose once.” 

The doctor could only laugh. 

But the truth was that Morse had been carrying Debryn’s address around in his pocket since the day he’d been transferred. Since he’d realized he wouldn’t be seeing the pathologist on a regular basis. When he’d had a quick thought come to mind, a book he’d come across, a bit of news in the paper of very niche interest, and his mind flashing to this specific man. Morse had been swept up in one of his rare bouts of sociability and looked Debryn up with a yearning to drop in and catch up. He’d thought they could talk like they used to, when it was as easy as stopping by the morgue and leaning on the desk and listening to the hospital gossip while he avoided looking at whatever mess was on the mortuary table. But as with most things he’d hesitated and decided not to extend himself unduly. Morse inevitably was distracted by something else, as he always was, and by the time his mind had circled back around to it, an impromptu visit seemed intrusive. Days turned into weeks and weeks into months and the address ended up creased and flattened into a corner of his wallet until he needed it for something more purposeful. 

“Grab that pitcher and those glasses for me, old chap. We'll go out to the garden.” 

Morse was naturally adverse to being anyone’s old chap, old fellow, good man or otherwise but from the good doctor it always felt a bit like he was being given favor. He liked the idea of that, that Debryn enjoyed his company a mite more than others, enjoyed their chats and their unique friendship as much as he himself did. He had surpassed being called by his rank while others, even Inspector Thursday, still remained in the pathologists books with distant and respectful titles. Morse had yet to take the leap of calling him Max, considering his own reticence about Christian names, and when they had first been introduced it had been dangled there, almost like bait, but he’d never taken it. Now it seemed so far off from that first meeting by the river, that it was practically ancient history. 

“This is a first. Splash more?” Debryn said as he set down the cake on it’s platter and topped off Morse’s glass of cool tea, “How’d you know where I live by the way?” 

“You’re in the book,” Morse smiled briefly, omitting that this wasn’t new information to him. He’d even driven past once, caught sight of the cottage set back from the road, and kept himself going. At least he’d made it here eventually, ulterior motives or not, “It’s nice.” 

And it was. It was enviable. The garden was like a fantasy, the type of space that made one wish to have a garden to themself, even with no desire to plant or maintain one. It was bright and green, quiet and peaceful, and made Morse want to ask about plants he’d never have given a second thought to otherwise. 

“I’m fighting a war of attrition with the greenfly over the tea roses,” Max sighed as he finally settled in, “Not very successfully it must be said.” 

Morse turned to admire said roses, delicate white with pink centers and giving off a faint, spicily pleasant fragrance in the close proximity. 

“But yes, as a spot, I’m rather fond.” 

Something in the way Max said it had Morse turning to look at him, but the man was simply admiring his home with a satisfied and content expression. Rather fond was a good way to say what Morse was feeling as well. 

“Well,” Max sighed and cast his eyes to Morse then, “Something has to be lovely, doesn’t it?” 

The reality of the words settled into Morse’s chest and his eyes finally fell away. It was lovely, but it wasn’t for him. For Max though? Max in his state of relaxation with his undone tie and his pleasantly cherubic face pointed towards the heavens? Max was lovely enough himself to deserve all the happiness and comfort the garden could give him. 

Morse was here for work though and his segue into questioning the pathologist was not so graceful. He was blunt and to the point as always, and even while it was clear that the information wasn't necessarily his to have, Debryn shared the details anyway. Was this further favor? Morse would like to think so, but also his own reputation likely preceded itself. Max had to know that Morse would find out what he needed to know by any means in the long run. But he'd come to Max first and directly, out of respect and friendship and a little bit of, dare he say, hope. 

“Interested in a spot of supper?” 

Max didn't ask until their glasses were empty and the sun had shifted in the afternoon sky. When the shop talked had ended, Morse had lingered for conversation. They had swapped news and gossip, something he seldom indulged in outside of a case, but there was plenty since his months in Woodstock and Debryn seemed to know just which tidbits would catch his ear. It wasn’t so unlike their old morgue sessions besides the beautiful garden, the absence of corpses, and the fact that Morse had indulged in his vice for all things sweet and managed a piece of cake. 

“I can't. I’ve got to go,” Morse checked his watch with genuine reluctance, “The case.” 

“Of course,” Max smiled with what he read as restrained disappointment, but bounced easily into his familiar teasing, “Got your fix and now you’re buggering off. Some things never change, eh?” 

“Oh, I’m not so bad as all that,” Morse managed a smile as he pushed himself away from the table and Max also stood. 

“Aren’t you?” Max smirked. 

“People have been very generous in telling me just how much I’ve changed lately, you know. Surely for the worst. You’re the first to say otherwise.” 

Max held open the back door to let them through the house and direct Morse back to the front, “Meddling where you don’t belong, stubborn as a mule and blinders when it comes to an unsolved puzzle? Cosmetics aside, Morse, I’d say you’re just the same as always.” 

Morse found that very reassuring. 

“You do owe me though,” Debryn finally said on the front door step. 

Morse turned to him with a puzzled look. 

“When the case is over, of course. I did you a favor and you owe me one.” 

Morse snorted, “Going to hold it over my head?” 

“No, but you’re going to come by for dinner some evening soon. Bring your music if you like, since it’s such good company,” Max smiled, “I’ll cook.” 

Morse didn’t often even eat at regular mealtimes these days. He was no cook and so eating was a necessity more than a pleasure, but Max seemed like someone who could convince him otherwise. His offer was too good to refuse and Morse certainly wouldn’t mind the company, “I think I can do that. I’ll ring you?” 

“Please do.” 

As Morse walked away he felt an unexpected flutter of anticipation for the eventual meal and when he dared a glance back at the front door one last time he caught the doctor still standing there, watching him leave. It pulled a grin and a flick of the fingers in goodbye from Morse, a motion that was returned, before he finally slipped out the gate and made his way to the car. 


	2. M A N G I A R E

“You outdid yourself, really,” Morse was full to bursting and had sunk into a bit of a lounge at Max’s dining table as he turned the stem of his wine glass slowly between his forefingers, “You needn’t to go through so much trouble.” 

“Nonsense. I’ve been looking for an excuse to try that recipe for an age. It’s never as satisfying to cook for oneself as it is for a guest,” Debryn also looked rather satisfied that between the pair of them nothing at all remained of what had started as very delicious coq au vin, “Besides, there was always the chance that I’d bugger it up. You’d have been forced to choke it down and flatter me about how delicious it was out of courtesy.” 

“Haven’t you heard? I’m very poor at courtesy,” Morse smirked. In his opinion the meal had been a success. He’d rung Max after the case had ended and, as his transfer letter had arrived that same morning, the doctor proposed the dinner be a bit of a celebration. 

“And how’s that going over with the _rakish Ronald Box_?” 

Morse hissed to hear the man’s name and took another sip of the Côtes-du-Rhône he’d brought to accompany the meal. They’d cracked it open when he arrived and shared glasses while Max finished up the cooking and gave a thorough explanation of what seemed like a rather long and drawn out cooking process. These final glasses were the last of it. 

“Better get used to him with your transfer to Castle Gate. Someone on high was clearly impressed with you but he’s the one you’ll be answering to.” 

Morse sucked in with an unconvinced click between his teeth, “Doubt anyone was impressed. Clerical error probably.” 

“Clerical errors don’t assign people to CID, Morse, and everyone knows the last case would have been stamped and shelved while Box was patting himself on the back. Two young girls would have been abandoned to perversion without your dogged determination,” Debryn tutted and drained his own glass, “I know telling you to mind yourself is like telling a fish not to swim, but you be careful. That man’s a brute.” 

“Oh, yes, I'm well aware. He had a go at Trewlove last year. Thursday almost put him through a wall and Bright was none pleased,” Morse drained his own glass. How the times had changed and tables had turned, “He's no governor of mine.” 

“Just be careful, Morse.” 

With the meal finished, they both rose and cleared the table and when Morse moved into the parlor to pour them each an after-dinner scotch, Max beckoned him with a curling finger towards the back door. With the flip of a switch, the patio was awash in a welcoming honey-gold glow that both complemented and deepened the summer darkness beyond its reach. Morse brought the scotch along as he followed and soon they were standing beside those contentious tea roses, each sipping from their glasses quietly. The pale blooms were illuminated in the golden light but Morse found something lacking about the flowers in the evening. They were made for sun and day, even their scents seemed faded now, as if they slept until dawn. The evening breeze instead brought new sounds and fresh smells that were unique on their own. 

“Smells lovely. What is that?” He wondered aloud. 

“Night-blooming jasmine,” Max turned to him with a smile, tugging one of his tie ends loose as he did. He cocked his head for Morse to follow him again, “I’ll show you.” 

And he did. Max took Morse over the careful stone edgework to stroll across the soft turf between the flower beds. The doctor pointed out the flowers that only came out at night innocuously distributed amongst the lush greenery, nearly invisible until the evening set in and they finally burst into bloom. The flowers stood out stunningly in the moonlight, sunny yellow evening primrose, delicate white cones of jasmine and heavy hanging bunches of wisteria that climbed along the back face of the house. Grasshoppers silenced their songs and fled their steps into the tall bordering grasses and Morse felt almost as if he’d left Oxford entirely when they wandered back into the far reaches of the space. The garden was like a fantasy book and if they'd stumbled upon an ancient well or a sleepily humming beehive he would have simply accepted it. Max could have told him that there were faeries or a passage to Narnia hidden in the lavender and it wouldn't have surprised him in the least. 

“You’re a man of many talents,” Morse finally said as they stood among the flora. The evening breeze carried a delicate mixture of fresh scents that cut through his drowsy post-meal haze. It left him refreshed and reinvigorated instead of the usual sluggish fullness, and his mood could only adequately be called enraptured. 

“To lose your leisure is to lose your soul,” Max said. “But talent implies some sort of natural gift for a thing. I’m afraid I’m just a man of many hobbies. Jack of all trades and master of none.” 

“Gardening,” Morse said, “Cooking and baking,” He paused in thought again, “Ah! Fishing.” 

Max nodded with a reluctant smile, “I do take pride in being able to like that stupid profession.” 

“Anything else?” 

“Golf.” 

“Fishing and golf? You're a proper scotsman,” Morse chuckled. 

Max actually winked with a put upon accent, “A wee dram.” 

“Really?” Morse’s brows rose disbelief. 

“Mother's side.” 

Morse shook his head lightly, “I don't know where you find the time.” 

“You have to make the time, Morse. What about you? There’s got to be more than your crosswords.” 

“Motoring. I know my way around under a bonnet, you know. My father was a driver,” Morse shared the little known fact. 

“Really? And you don't even have a car. Though that's a very helpful bit of knowledge for my next break down. Ah! Your singing,” Max pointed out, his finger straightening at Morse from the side of his scotch glass in mild accusation, “Which you keep very locked up about, I might add. Wouldn’t mind a ticket at some point, you know.” 

“Besides people snickering behind my back about the Singing Policeman, no one’s ever seemed to care enough to share,” Morse shrugged, “I can get you into the next one, if you’re really interested.” 

“I am. Very much so,” Max smiled up at him, closed lipped but clearly pleased and those fascinating dimples of his were back. 

Morse found he couldn’t look away and the moment dragged longer than it should have before he was lifting his glass to his lips in distraction and Debryn turned back to the flowers and did the same. The ensuing quiet was charged with something he wasn’t ready to explore, but was wonderfully comfortable and a little bit exciting and it had been a very long time since he'd felt that way. By the time they finally drifted back to the house through the moonlit splendour of Max’s fragrant garden space, Morse was beginning to worry about overstaying his welcome. 

The evening had been ideal and he didn’t want to ruin it. 

“When do you start at Castle Gate?” Debryn inquired as Morse made his preparations to leave. 

“Monday.” 

“Where are you staying?” 

Morse’s lip curled with involuntary disgust, “Section house until I find something.” 

“Bad luck. I'll keep an eye out for vacancies,” Max nodded and began to walk him out, “And Morse, don’t be a stranger.” 

“Thank you,” Morse paused and struggled with an adequate goodbye, “For the dinner and- everything.” 

Max seemed much smoother than he, “We’ll have to do it again sometime.” 

Agreeing to that, thankfully, didn’t require any thought at all, “We should. Good night, doctor.” 

“Goodnight, Morse.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This dinner date is entirely the fault of greenapricot ;D


	3. A P O L L O

At 3:59 a.m. a man had walked on the moon. The entirety of the world had been glued to their television sets for nearly a week in preparation and yet Morse sat alone, in an unmarked police cruiser, and listened to it on the radio while he thought of irresponsible parents, wayward children, the nature of the future and his place in it. 

And before he knew it he was standing under a shaded trellis of dark leaves and the birds were waking and twittering out their sporadic morning songs because they knew well that sunrise was on the horizon. The lights were on in the front room of the cottage, so before he could think better of himself, Morse knocked. There wasn’t much of a wait but his gut was already swirling with anxious guilt for the impromptu visit when the white door swung open and Morse was met with the sight of Dr. Debryn in his pyjamas, dressing gown and slippers just as he was mentally preparing to flee. 

“Morse,” Max was surprised, which was expected, “Everything alright?” 

“Two men have climbed into a tin can, shot themselves into the vastness of space, and lived to climb out and put it on the telly,” He said in an exasperation of air that he couldn’t quite hold in. 

Max, bless him, only blinked cooly, “Yes.” 

Morse didn’t feel like he was articulating well. He gestured almost wildly before dragging his hand through his hair, “People are ruining their lives and destroying their families. Here,” he pointed at the ground, “on this chunk of rock. Killing one another for the sake of something as tenuous as.. as... jealousy? Reputation? And still there’s absolute mad men up there - out there - clinging to the surface of the moon with only one taut cord and a few sheets of metal keeping them from drifting off into oblivion. For what? So we can eventually expand our miserable species past it's natural bounds..?” 

He exhaled and Max said nothing, waiting for the crux of the issue. 

“What’s the point?” Morse sagged desperately. He was lonely, he needed to talk and the section house was the last place he wanted to be, “We ruin everything we touch.” 

Morse stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets and hunched in on himself. Once upon a time he'd asked Debryn about his thoughts on love by the banks of a river next to the bloated corpse of a man Max had described as a runny roquefort, and the doctor had told him it was too early in the day for metaphysics before waxing poetic about love and fishing. Now on his doorstep with morning fast approaching Morse had bigger questions than anyone had answers for and he highly doubted that Max could simply soothe his existential crisis with a balm of Housman. 

Morse rolled his head to the side and half spun away as humiliation made itself known finally, “I’m sorry I- I clearly disturbed you.” 

Max appraised him a moment before finally speaking, _“The toil of all that be helps not the primal fault; It rains into the sea-”_

Morse was wrong of course, about Max and his Housman. The doctor continued to surprise him day after day. Something hot and fresh flared under his collar and rippled down his spine and Morse was almost embarrassed that he'd thought the doctor incapable of answering him satisfactorily. It was like Debryn had read his mind and sought to prove him wrong. Impossible, of course, but impressive. Bastard. 

Morse answered, “ _-And still the sea is salt_.” 

“Come in,” Max stepped back and turned for Morse to follow. 

The house was dark aside from the dimly illuminated parlor where a small television was playing the BBC Apollo 11 coverage. Both astronauts now bobbed around on the surface with small kangaroo hops and in between the silence commentators spoke about the more technical aspects of what was going on. 

“Drink?” Debryn himself seemed to only have a cup of tea beside his spot on the settee but he must have sensed that Morse might need something more potent to calm his mind. 

“Whiskey to forget?” 

“Somehow I don't feel like you ever forget, Morse,” Max poured him a measure anyway, handed it over, and motioned for Morse to join him in front of the television. 

They sat side by side in companionable silence for a while as Morse let the burn of the whiskey work it’s way from mouth to gullet and numb the dull hunger pangs of the hour. He had no desire to eat but the tiny twinges were a reminder that he hadn’t had anything since breakfast the previous day. When the drone of the commentators began to sound like a meaningless hum, he rested his head back and rolled it to look at the man beside him. 

“It's madness,” Morse said. 

“The endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill’d with the foolish…what good amid these, O me, O life?” Max challenged him, drawing him out of his own miserable head like an admonishing school master, “ _Answer?_ ” 

Morse answered automatically and obediently, “ _That you are here. Life exists._ ” 

“We should, at the very least, appreciate our glaring moments of human achievement, Morse. Science. Maths. Engineering. Biology. Broadcasting and media. This particular venture is a multidisciplinary culmination of many peoples entire lives.” 

Morse, in his desolation, hadn't thought that far, “You sound proud.” 

“Aren't you?” 

He clucked a displeased sound. 

“Amazed in even the most miniscule measure?” 

“I suppose,” Morse grunted. 

Max laughed with a small sound of exasperation, “You are a stubborn sod.” 

That, for some reason, had Morse smirking wryly. He must have been tired to admit pride in such a thing, “You don’t know the half.” 

“It's in our nature to strive. To push the limits. Did you know that humans have different brain chemistry when they are young? In fact so different, that it affects both reasoning and caution. Mature decision making. The reason why the young act, for lack of a better word, _stupid_ is essentially because they are biologically prone to do so. Perhaps as a young species, we also suffer the same fate.” 

“So I'm supposed to just accept that we will take ourselves off of this planet eventually, settle somewhere else and repeat all of our horrendous mistakes again?” 

“Yes, actually,” Max was looking at him over the top of his glasses which had slid down his nose, “We have to accept that we are powerless in some aspects of our existence and make due with the small differences we can make. Murder and war still happen every day but it won't stop us from procreating or trying to cure disease or extending our lives as much as possible. It's not pointless to do the most we can with what little time we have.” 

Morse mused on that a moment. Could he say the same of his own life? He tried, surely, to make a difference through his career and he'd long ago decided that the path of the policeman would be his life's work, but was he doing the best for himself? Could he have more? He certainly always wanted more, something blurred from his vision but there on the horizon just out of reach. 

“A little boy asked tonight if I was going to be his new daddy,” Morse wasn't sure why he mentioned it. He never thought much about children until they were staring him in the face. Perhaps a normal life was really what he wanted. Not with Joan Thursday of course. Just the thought made him angry, bittersweet chords struck just by the thought of her even though he had buried his romantic notions months ago. In retrospect, he realized how fanciful he'd been about it all along. His governor's daughter? Young enough to still need to stretch her legs and find herself and make mistakes? To her, the idea of anything with him must have been one of those mistakes. Growing pains. 

“Really?” Max almost laughed. 

“What's funny?” Morse frowned. 

“I just can't imagine you as a parent. Changing nappies? Dirty little fingers all over your records?” 

“I could learn,” Morse said stubbornly but couldn’t even convince himself, “You said make the most of what we have.” 

“Within our will and means, Morse,” Max watched him with a bit of playful sympathy, like he was a child jumping for a cookie jar so greatly out of his reach that it was simply adorable to see him try. 

There was that annoying burn of mild humiliation once again and Morse turned back to his glass and the grainy footage on the telly. The pair of them lapsed back into silence as the announcers continued to calmly drone on about samples and tests and gravity. 

When Morse had finally drank down his embarrassment and drained his glass, he looked back at Max only to find the doctor had been watching him the entire time. 

“I didn't mean to laugh, Morse. It's only natural to want to progress in life. Otherwise we are in danger of being stagnant,” Max finally said, though his voice was softer, “We’re always going to want something more. To move forward. To develop. To conquer if that's what it comes to. We’re also always going to be selfish and covetous and violent. Sometimes we do things just because we can,” Max continued though he seemed to be searching Morse’s face slowly, “But we’ll always push for more, whether it be the moon or family or love-” 

Morse leaned forward and kissed him. He wasn't sure when he decided he wanted to. Somewhere around their last dinner, somewhere in the garden maybe, or even longer ago, but it wasn't a wholly conscious thought now, just an instinct. Max froze, but it was a slack of disbelief more than a rejection and after a heartbeat that felt like an eternity, the doctor was kissing him back. Morse shifted for a better angle, leaning over the other and cradling his cheek in his hand. The embrace was warm and soft and silent and when Morse finally traced the seam of Max’s mouth with his tongue he found an intoxicating taste of sweet tea and mint before the doctor parted his lips in a sigh to accept him. By the time they broke apart, Morse felt like he was on fire and under his palm, Max’s skin felt just the same. 

Debryn was searching his face again, taking in a deep steadying breath, and Morse still half hovered above him. He was close enough to feel Max’s breath mingle with his own, to rest their foreheads together a moment while they both steadied, and for him to stroke the doctor's cheek slowly under his thumb. It may have been his imagination, but this close, Morse was sure he could smell the garden on him, the wisteria and primrose and the night-blooming jasmine. 

“Not what I meant by conquering, Morse,” Max finally said with an unsure twitch of the mouth. Morse’s thumb now brushed across his bottom lip and the doctor’s brow furrowed as if he were suddenly concerned about the intimacy of the gesture. 

“I was thinking more along the lines of moving forward. Wanting something more,” Morse’s brows rose and he smiled, “Developing.” 

This time Max kissed him, curling his hand in the front of Morse’s shirt and nearly pulling him into his lap. Morse would have been happy to oblige and let out a low sound of satisfaction as he tried to shift position, but Max thought better of the impulse and pressed a palm to his chest and stopped him. The kiss deepened into something that tingled along his limbs and stirred a hunger in his blood but the doctor’s hand, fanned over his thudding heartbeat, held him back with firm and unyielding strength. The kiss broke, lips tugged between teeth and released, and one of them (or the both of them - it was hard to tell) growled before Max made the more concerted effort to control himself. Morse chased the retreating kiss but was interrupted by that firm press of hand once more. 

“We both need sleep,” The doctor’s eyes flashed to the daylight growing outside the windows and then back. In spite of his words, the hand pressed against Morse’s chest had smoothed upwards to run reverently along the plane of his throat. Their lips still remained only centimeters apart, “And if we continue with our _progress_ , I don’t see that happening.” 

“No,” Morse agreed reluctantly and still turned to brush their lips together once again, another torturous taste, and Max responded with an unexpected sigh. Morse flushed with heat to hear it, the sound travelling right to his core where sensation and the desire for satisfaction were in great danger of overruling his reason. With a deep breath he peeled himself away, released Max and sunk back into the settee. His pulse pounded through every hungry inch of his body, thrummed in his chest and his ears and even in his fingertips, and the the effort to relax was taking every bit of his self-control. 

“I certainly don’t think this is the answer to your existential crisis,” Max breathed as he shifted himself, straightened his clothing, and also made a valiant attempt at calming down. 

“No,” Morse repeated obediently and took another breath, but now that he’d had the smallest taste he wasn’t sure if he could forget. Every nerve in him yearned to move back towards Max and kiss him again. Just sweep him up in it, pin him down under his hips until they were mad with it, move towards the stairs, not think of anything else but the feel of their bodies- 

_I am sad tonight. Therefore dance for me. Dance for me, Salomé._

Max was right again, this was no answer to anything. Morse rubbed a hand over his face, “You’re right.” 

“Are you still staying in the section house?” Max finally pushed himself up and moved to turn off the television set. 

“Yes,” Morse sighed. 

“I'm sorry,” Debryn sounded painfully genuine but Morse couldn’t look him in the eye yet. He couldn’t trust himself. 

“Bad luck is the story of my life,” Morse shrugged awkwardly and finally stood. He only turned towards Max when he got to the door, “Thank you, doctor. For your hospitality.” 

It came out colder than he intended. His annoyance at himself projected in the usual way and Max seemed to take it exactly as it sounded. The shorter man still stepped forward, took Morse's chin in one hand, and leaned upwards to press the briefest kiss to his lips in apology. 

It was Morse’s turn to be surprised and he found himself chasing those lips again, the contact was so fleeting, but Debryn’s dark blue eyes pinned him with a familiar look of care and concern. 

“Another night, Morse. Just not tonight,” That warm hand dropped to spread across his sternum once again, “And it’s Max.” 

Morse nodded and twitched a small smile. He wasn’t sure if he possessed enough dumb luck or bravery to try such a thing another time. 

Still… 

“Another night then, Max.” 


	4. C O N F E C T I O N

In the pouring rain on a deserted street corner with his collar up around his ears, Morse weighed his options. He turned his face up to the sky and let the cool water stream over his features and mat down his hair as the image of Inspector Thursday laughing and smoking played over and over in a pall of hazy neon behind his eyes. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t even upset. He was simply disappointed. Morse had seen it coming, he’d felt the rift growing with every passing day and every futile conversation. He’d like to think that he’d tried, tried to bring him back, to bolster Thursday as he had for Morse so many times before, but it seemed the older man had made his choice of company and (besides Morse himself) there was no more stubborn a man than Fred Thursday. 

_O me, O life._

There was some small relief to be considered and explored as the ruptures in Morse’s personal relationships revealed themselves, and that was that he'd never felt more truly _himself_ than he had in the past few weeks. Without Thursday’s hovering presence and natural instinct to steer him, he’d been standing on his own two feet. Morse didn't care to mince his words anymore, not to any of them, and he was perfectly capable of managing most of the workload on his own. He may have been tired and hungry, nearly homeless as he continued to avoid the section house as much as possible, but there was a lightness in his exhaustion, a freedom in his loosed tethers, and Morse found that in some small way there was a blessing hidden in the rough: He was finally moving on. 

The killings at Chigton Green had helped him make steps, pursue inquiries where others may have let it go, and Box and Jago’s disinterest in due process at least allowed him to prove himself where they were lacking. Even Thursday, for those couple of blissful afternoons, was engaged in the case and not whatever was weighing him down. It was almost like the old days when they were on the beat and making inquiries, but with much more mutual respect and the old man not trying so hard to reign him in from his tangents. Even his admonishment about the veterinarian's daughter had been painless, but he attributed that to a lack in Thursday's usual fire. 

Morse knew now that his impulsive pursuit of Isla Fairford had been a mistake, but it was a mistake he’d been destined to make and in the end, he wasn’t shattered by it. He'd been able to hope for some small moment that he could find someone, settle into something serious, and even though she’d been using him, he wondered if he hadn't been doing the same. It was rather convenient that a single mother would appear right when he was worrying about his future, right after he'd been chuckled at for imagining being a father himself. Maybe he'd been wanting to prove Max wrong or Strange who said he wasn't normal, or perhaps just to challenge his own doubts, but when all was said and done she was just another killer and not even so clever of one. The only sorry he felt was for her young son. It was a lesson learned, not that he shouldn’t look for love, but instead that he could survive it relatively unscathed. 

He and Max had never pursued what happened between them in July, but things had definitely changed. It was the one relationship in his life that hadn’t disappointed him. It was like some curtain had dropped, some gauzy veil fallen away, and Morse felt like they were closer to being true friends than they ever had been before. None of the rubes in CID quite understood Debryn’s necessity for face to face reporting, so it was the singular bit of departmental slack that Morse was happy to pick up. He knew the looks they gave and the things they said about the pair of them. He was a queer duck, Strange had once said, and as time went on he not only found it to be true - that he was different - but that Max was indeed a kindred spirit. He was learning to use it as armor, as the doctor seemed to do, instead of something to be angry about. Morse found that lately when they looked at one another it was like an inside joke had been shared between them and for someone who had always lived his life on the outskirts, it was an invaluable feeling of belonging. He’d begun to small talk with the man, share his life’s goings on, and even keep him abreast of his recent search for a flat. It was nice for once to feel like he had anyone to talk to with some amount of ease without having to prove himself or catch up along the way. 

A trickle of rain bypassed his coat, slid down his neck and absorbed into his shirt to send a chill down Morse’s spine as he checked his watch. Not late, not like the last time he’d showed up on Max’s doorstep, and when he began to move it took less time than he expected before he was once more standing in the faint outdoor lamplight under the shaded trellis. The only sound was that of the rain pattering against the leaves above his head and the iron knocker against the wood while he waited. The mid-summer blossoms were now replaced with heartier, later season blooms, and Morse noticed the window boxes had new plantings in autumn colors of amber and burgundy. 

“Morse,” Max answered, still in his work suit, and as surprised as he ever was to see him at his door. They had only parted a few hours ago from the suspicious automotive death, so seeing Morse again so soon was certainly not expected. 

“Doctor,” Morse’s lips quirked, “Max.” 

He knew he was a sight, soaked to the bone and likely looking miserable at quick glance. 

“You’re waterlogged,” Debryn stepped back to allow him inside, “Come in.” 

“I was wondering if I could stay,” Morse said very plainly. It hadn’t been his planned opening line, perhaps something smoother, but such things weren’t his forte. He’d always been more of a Christian than a Cyrano. He'd been afraid to come back here after the last time because he didn’t want to use the offer as a crutch, some way to escape his rooms, some way to escape his loneliness. He'd been afraid that crossing any more lines with Debryn would ruin the growing friendship between them, that his one single strong connection would be in jeopardy to his own impulsive urges. But in the end he still wanted him, anything he could get, and he wanted to be here with him now. Tonight he needed somewhere to belong, “I mean the night. With you. If the invitation was still open.” 

Max paused but didn't seem as shocked as he might have. Instead he tilted his head, “Which still involves you being _inside_ the house, I believe.” 

Morse was strangely nervous as he stepped into the entry hall and took a moment, as he had that first afternoon, to appreciate the space. The crimson hallway stretched before him, each room chambered neatly off to his left and right and he realized very suddenly what it reminded him of: a heart. Max's heart perhaps, and the notion that he’d been allowed in felt rather stupidly romantic. 

As the door was shut behind him, Morse began to work out of his coat only to feel a pair of hands take hold and assist. The doctor peeled the sopping fabric from his shoulders and while Morse shook his arms loose, Max was hanging the heavy coat on it’s own peg to give it room to dry. 

“I meant to compliment you on this new coat,” The doctor glanced over his shoulder, “And your recent wardrobe changes may even put that uniform out of my mind.” 

“Well someone may have told me I looked good in blue,” Morse’s cuffs and collar were damp and now rubbing uncomfortably on his sensitive skin. He could feel trickles of rainwater down the back of his neck as his hair clumped in messy curls and waves, but thankfully his coat had absorbed the brunt of the moisture. The change in temperature, cool rain to warm home, sent a shiver through him. Max stepped close, nearly pressing against him and radiating a heat that the detective leaned into when the doctor’s hand rested on his waist. 

“That _someone_ seemed to know what they were talking about.” 

Neither man seemed to be under any illusions now. They bent close to one another, each of their eyes searching for a sign of acceptance and rejection in equal amounts, and it was so clear to Morse that he shouldn’t have waited so long to come back. They bumped noses, the taller man huffing in amusement at himself, before Max lifted on his toes and pressed their lips together. The warmth of the house was now nothing compared to feeling of their bodies, the electricity that tingled along his skin and the sought after heat of Max against him. 

“You taste like rain,” the doctor murmured when they broke apart. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“I like it,” Another kiss was stolen. 

“You taste like whiskey,” Morse murmured against Max's lips. He wasn’t sure how, but he also still smelled like the garden. 

The doctor leaned back on his heels a moment and nodded towards the sitting room, “I’d just poured a glass when you arrived. Would you like some?” 

“No. This is enough for now,” Another kiss was stolen, slow and savoring. He’d be happy to do this all night, not denying himself or Max, what they both wanted. 

“We’re still in the hallway, Morse,” Max pulled away with a breath and took a step backwards. 

“I suppose I was waiting for you to-” Morse then shrugged rather awkwardly, not quite sure the correct way to translate the reluctant nervous energy. 

“To what?” 

He put open a rather gruff imitation of the man himself, “ _‘Now see here, Morse, you can’t just show up on my doorstep like a bedraggled stray every time you have an existential crisis.’”_

Max barked a small laugh, “Is that what I sound like? My, my, what you must think of me.” 

“I think very highly of you in fact,” he admitted, “I just supposed you may be more apprehensive.” 

“My mother did always warn about strays. Feed one and it’ll always come back,” Max’s brows lifted, “Are you having another crisis I need to know about?” 

Morse sometimes felt like his life was a series of consecutive crises, lined up one after the other like dominoes. He never quite realized until they were passed that he was powerless to prevent more. It was his nature, his mother told him as a boy, to exist so fully in the moment that he nearly forgot the rest of the world existed. He was too thoughtful, too emotional, too everything. He was learning to accept it now and life felt vastly easier, “No. In fact I feel more myself than I have in a long time.” 

“Than who am I to complain or deny either of us some time to ourselves?” This time when they pulled close and kissed, it was deeper and more heated than they allowed themselves previously. Their arms encircled one another tightly, Morse’s around Max’s waist and Max’s hands smoothing up his back to bury into the detective's wet hair. This time their parting was a longer time coming and Morse was beginning to feel the impatient itch to touch skin as his clinging clothes began to border on uncomfortable. 

“I'm still damp,” Morse murmured like an apology, taking a breath, “And I've got both our shirts wet.” 

Max smiled, nonplussed, and hooked a finger in the knot of Morse’s tie to loosen it with a small wriggle, “Then we should get out of them.” 


	5. D E G U E L L O

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I've had eighteen straight whiskies, I think that's the record . . .”  
> ― Dylan Thomas's famous last words

Max Debryn had never been known to flirt with danger. In fact, should he be called in to any situation, all immediate danger better have well and truly passed. Even his closest and oldest friends had never seen him engage in a physical altercation of any kind. The only sparring he enjoyed was of the verbal variety and the only precipices he ever stood on the edge of were generally those relating to his reputation. In fact, his most dangerous flirting of recent memory was with one DS Morse, and that had turned out a lot less treacherous and much more fulfilling than he ever expected. His chosen profession had always kept him out of the action, in the still and sanitary hospital workspaces where there was little chance of any unpredictability outside of a puzzling diagnosis, which meant it came as some surprise to have two men enter his lab much too late in the evening - with very muddy boots - and without a word of warning, knock him about. There was no struggle or retaliation when Max was gripped up and slammed into the stainless steel worktop. He reeled in shock and pain and was not even able to cry out a warning to Morse on the other end of the telephone line before a second strike came in quick succession. Max felt a sharp pain along his hairline, a warm trickle of his own blood, and his last frustrated thought before unconsciousness was for the state of his glasses as he felt them slip off and clatter to the floor.

 

* * *

 

It was warm and his body felt like it was surrounded by nothing but the sound of his breathing and the slowly normalizing thud of his own pulse in his ears. As the adrenaline wore off, the endorphins made him drowsy and Max's mind drifted elsewhere. Beside him in the bed, Morse curled close and pressed to his side and his thin fingers gripped and slid up the inside of Max's arm. Morse hummed a sound that was very like deep satisfaction and as his lips pressed to Max's naked shoulder, goose pimples prickled along the doctor's skin.

“Max,” Morse sighed his name and it fluttered through him with an affection he hadn’t quite found a moment to process, “Are you asleep?”

Max hummed. He thought he hummed, anyway. The disconnected feeling was wearing off so he rolled towards Morse, extracting one arm so he could cast the other around his companion's waist. The urge to touch him was undeniable and as their limbs tangled together and they nuzzled against one another, Max distractedly muttered the word, “Oxytocin..”

“What?” Morse laughed a bit from where he was ghosting his lips back and forth along Max’s jaw.

“Cuddle hormone,” Max cracked his eyes to be met with those wide and penetrating blues of the detective. Morse’s hair was drying in frizzy golden whorls that framed his head like a halo in the lamp light. God, he was lovely.

“Are you always such a doctor?” Morse smiled crookedly.

“Do you always ask so many bloody questions?” Max grumbled before he leaned in for a warm kiss. He could feel the mess of their sex drying on his skin, the sweaty cling between them and the dampness on the bedding from Morse’s rain soaked hair, but it was all an afterthought to the unexpected contentment that could not be wholly attributed to the post-coital chemical mix pumping through his brain.

Morse hummed with a chuckle and shrugged as he broke away and adjusted position again with a languid and lavish stretch. Max couldn't help admiring the unabashed creature of pleasure that Morse had become. Between their bodies, their hands found each other and laced together. Such a simple gesture of affection fell heavy on his heart like a grand declaration and Max could only squeeze tightly, both a lifeline and the current that threatened to sweep him away.

 

* * *

 

“Good evenin’, Doctor.”

Max was roused by a none-too-gentle hand slapping against his cheek that triggered a web of sparking pain across his brow and a deep throbbing behind the eyes that stretched as far as his sinuses. He was sure he’d have black eyes from the way his nose was aching, but it was no surprise after his run in with the morgue's stainless steel. Max’s skin stretched with what he was sure was his own dried blood if the look of his shirt had anything to say on the matter, and he shivered in the evening chill.

“My boys weren’t too rough I hope?”

Without his glasses he was forced to squint up at the man, and as undignified as he probably looked, Max rallied for a bit of a glare. He didn’t recognize the man at all and his mind ran through a catalogue of faces and names in vain. There was a very real panic now bubbling beneath the surface. It was like cold iron in his gut and uncomfortable static beneath his skin to be so out of his depth. Not knowing his captor was nearly breaking. Wasn’t it someone you knew who usually killed you? Max’s logical mind told him that panic and fear were natural when you were bound and being held in some sort of dim industrial closet, but it also told him he needed to breathe and take in as much of his surroundings as he could. He was better than his base instincts. He had to keep himself sharp and aware.

A dark room, rusted steel walls. A small high window that showed him nothing but darkness and the distant sound of rain. Max took a deep inhale through his nose and out through his mouth (nose not broken, small blessings) to soothe the slight tremor he could feel beginning in his arms and moving down to his fingers. The floor was tracked with loose dirt and mud and it didn't take a genius to follow a conclusion that lab tests had already confirmed - Wicklesham.

“I’m not sure what you want with me-” Max chanced to speak and heard his voice crack dry. Mentally he was diagnosing himself, flexing his toes and shifting his legs, adjusting his hips and eventually curling his fingers one after the other while his captor stood in front of him. His wrists were bound behind his back, unlike the man they’d found in the cement of the collapsed towers, but the panic rose again when he imagined himself not only murdered but cemented over cheaply into the foundation of some poorly funded housing complex, buried alive and never to be seen again. Cement in his nasal passages, in his throat..

Another deep breath.

The binding on his wrists was tight and judging by the additional chill, circulation was already becoming an issue. He’d been wrapping up in the lab when they’d got him, no jacket and still in his sleeve garters which they hadn't removed and weren’t doing his blood flow any favors. With a small shift of his wrists Max determined they’d bound his hands with his own bow tie.

Bloody savages.

“I think you know exactly why you’re here,” He was a big man with a salt and pepper beard but to Max still a stranger, “I don’t begrudge a man being good at his job, Doctor, but you and your little police friends are getting to be a bit too thorough. All honor and duty and no sense.”

Max at least had spine enough to keep glaring. If there was one thing he had mastered over the years, it was himself, and he knew very well how to raise his walls when under threat.

“And I keep hearing about this bloke Morse. Morse can’t be bought. Morse can’t be stopped. Morse won’t come into the fold. _‘You don’t know Morse’_ ,” The big man walked around the doctor a moment and eyed his bonds so Max stilled.

“So I’ll bring Morse to me,” The man suddenly kicked the metal chair Max was bound to and the surprise made the doctor jump and flinch, “He’ll definitely come running for you.”

“He’d come running for anyone,” Max glared again, face screwing up in his best effort at calm disapproval considering the discomfort he was in. He continued to stem his own panic with a silent mental mantra: if they wanted him dead, he’d be dead already, “Cat in a bloody tree and Morse would be there.”

“But you’re his favorite, aren’t you?” The man grinned with unspoken implication, “Or is he yours? Doesn’t matter. You’ll both be dead come morning.”

Max shifted again and what had been a half-numbness through his back and shoulders became firey shots of pain through his nerves that made him gasp.

The man smirked, “Are you afraid to die, doctor?”

“Not particularly,” Max glanced up at him, finally deciding that not moving any more would be prudent, “Though I always imagined it might be a bit more like Dylan Thomas.”

The man’s conviviality seemed to finally run dry, “You’re a clever bugger, eh? Let’s see how strong a stomach you really got.”

Max was not at all expecting the mighty fist when it swung in on his gut and blew the wind out of him again.

 

* * *

 

Max wasn’t used to sharing a bed with another person. It was not as sound a night’s sleep as he was used to, but there was some reassurance in reaching out to find another body, to find warm skin and another set of hands that reached for him when he drifted too far off. Morse, it turned out, was a bit like a koala, clinging to every bit of graspable warmth, and even when they rolled away from one another the detective still found a way to press back to back so there was never any doubt that they were there together. This, of course, made it more obvious when one of them rose in the night for the toilet, or to fetch a glass of water, or when the daylight was pink through the curtains and Max had finally fallen into a deep sleep, that Morse had peeled himself away and was slinking around at bedside like a cat on its tiptoes.

The doctor shifted and rolled in half-awareness to watch Morse fish around on the floor for his pants. Max enjoyed the view while it lasted, Morse bent for his shorts and leaning against the mattress, but when he braced himself to pull them on, Max reached out and curled his fingers around the man’s wrist.

“Doing a runner?” His voice was sleep rough, his mind floating through a rose tinted morning fog, but his grip was tight.

Morse blinked, his hair askew and even his mustache mashed slightly to one side, but he managed a small smile, “No. I was going to put the kettle on, actually, and look for a paper. I didn’t want to bother you.”

Max grunted and released him and, finding the explanation satisfactory, he rolled back over. He was sure he’d only closed his eyes another moment but Morse was soon settling back into the bed, on top of the duvet this time, and looked almost comical in one of his own dressing gowns which was too short and too wide and gaped open at the chest when he sat and leaned against the headboard. The slash of bare skin looked especially pale against the dark velvet, but Max could see a few lingering love bites from their previous evening's activities. The smell of Morse’s coffee cemented the memory tangibly and as the man set himself upon the crossword with a very singular attention, Max felt he may see him there just like that in his mind anytime he brewed a cup - relaxed and loose and lovely in the morning light. It was a strangely pleasant notion.

Max watched him longer than he’d like to admit, watched him gnaw the end of his pen or the edge of his thumb, watched his pale thigh lift to use as a flat surface, the dressing gown slipping away to reveal delicious swathes of skin marked only with his old pink scars. He watched him smash his hair down with his hand when he couldn't solve a clue in a reasonable amount of time and rub his hand over his jaw and mustache with soft scratching sounds as he fell deeper into his own thoughts. There was a warm and fuzzy sort of detached admiration but slowly Max became more aware, more awake, and unlike his companion, seemed to be thinking just a bit more about what they’d done than Morse appeared to be.

“Hand me my glasses will you?” Max finally yawned and stretched. Parts of him ached that hadn’t in years, a good ache, a fulfilling ache, and the smell of the coffee now had his insides gnawing with hunger.

Morse plucked the spectacles off of the side table nearest him, opened them and tried them on for a moment (adorable, he’d never admit it) and after discovering the strength of the script, handed them over.

“Awake?” Morse asked.

“Something close.”

“There’s coffee in the pot downstairs.”

“Not awake enough for moving.”

Max sat up and pulled the duvet up around his chest. He’d never thought himself a self conscious man but there was something about the glaring light of the morning-after that not only brought out his insecurities, but had him questioning what all this meant.

“You look suspicious.”

“Not awake enough for that either,” Max deflected.

“Yet here you are, looking suspicious. Should I have left?” Morse put his puzzle and pen aside and slid down further into the bed so they were closer to being face to face, “I can now, if you'd prefer.”

Max felt an anxious and nervous energy suddenly bloom in his gut. He was as confused about his own feelings as he was questioning Morse’s motivations, but being asked so directly - just as Morse had very directly stated his intentions on his doorstep in the rain - left no room for avoidance.

The truth was that Max had wanted him badly since the night of the moon landing. It was like a craving, a small taste of something he hadn’t known he wanted until he’d tried it, and his whet appetite hadn’t been sated. Propriety had kept him from pursuing it further over the past weeks, and his own professional moral code, but Morse had finally come to him and it was like being handed a gift. Now Max wasn’t sure if he’d indulged because of a tough week or if there was something more here between the pair of them from which there was no going back.

“If you had left I would have understood,” Max watched him carefully, “You’ve no obligations.”

“But I stayed,” Morse finished his thought, “and that’s more confusing?”

Max said nothing and Morse gave it a moment’s thought while he selected his words, “These days I don’t know who to trust, Max. But I know I can trust you. Does that make some modicum of sense at least?”

Morse was often an open book, his expression always earnest and serious, which made his moments of joy and his moments of laughter all the more appealing. Max had seen a whole other side of him now, a side of passion and playfulness, of softness that had blindsided him. Morse’s current honesty was sobering and undeniably attractive to some yearning part of him that had been dormant for years. The nervous ball in Max’s gut, the collected vibrating static of anxiety and unease, finally burst and warmed him from the inside out and it was a relief.

He believed Morse, more than was sensible probably, and even more foolish, he trusted him as well. Max’s suspicions dissolved. Morse had never been anything but loyal to a fault. To have earned his trust moved him in some unexplainable way and he breathed out an exhale of _‘Yes’_ when he shifted forward and their lips met.

 

* * *

 

It went without saying that bound to a metal chair in an unheated room, Debryn did not have a luxuriously restful evening. When his body managed to doze he distantly thought of his garden, white and gold blooms in the darkness, but chilly reality had no sympathy on his mind and the dreams shattered with every necessary shift of his body and every arc of pain that went along with them. With no mental or physical solace, Max had plenty of time to do nothing but think. Think of the worst, think of fanciful escape scenarios, and the think of even more fanciful rescues. He’d plenty of time to realize that the conspiratorial web of bodies and drugs went deeper than he’d imagined, and wishful thinking crumbled slowly away to leave only the solid possibility that he would die here (or somewhere hereabouts) and with that came the realization that his captors intended Morse to die too. It seemed like sheer melodrama that they were even keeping him alive, an ego driven power trip by whoever was in charge to dangle him like bait and flash him at Morse like a prize won. The only benefit of the ever-present threat was that Max’s fear had turned to exhaustion and eventually his anxiety and panic had simply burned themselves out to leave an emotional numb as deep as the physical one.

Max had never considered himself a claustrophobic but he found that now, denied of it, he longed to see the sky. The solitary high and narrow window in this room was angled badly and there was only blackness beyond until the dawn hours crept in. The sky began to shift to an inky blue, then a slate grey, and soon an unsunny bright white. No, he wouldn’t even be granted a view of a sunrise on what could be his final day. Only the glaring stormy glow of an overcast English morning.

When his captors finally came for him, the depth of the conspiracy revealed itself. The last puzzle piece fell into place. Even without every single nuance of truth, the appearance of Alan Jago’s grinning face was a portent of the worst sort of corruption.

“No hard feelings, Doc. Business is business,” Jago’s smile was too smug, “Maybe the next sawbones’ll be a bit more friendly, aye?”

His stomping goons weren’t careful or quiet. They slammed doors and talked loudly at one another about sport scores as if retrieving a tied up captive were as innocent a task as going down to Richardson’s. When they hauled him out of his chair there was no thought to the state of his shoulders, arms or back, and when pins and needles of pain rocketed through the numb of his upper body, Max’s gasp of agony only earned him a gag.

At least it was clean.

He was carried out of his prison on the shoulder of one of the brutes like a sack of potatoes. Like he was some bin bag going out to be collected. Max knew that to these men it didn’t matter if he had dignity or respect. He wouldn’t be needing it soon.

They tossed him into the back of the truck face down, his landing only cushioned by a scratchy layer of burlap. Laying on his belly was a unique kind of cruelty because even though he’d been brought outside, the doctor was still denied the simple pleasure of looking up.

 

* * *

 

Max came home a bit later than usual for a work evening and found Morse waiting for him. They’d seen each other several times since their first real night together. There were a few casual dinners in the garden before the weather had gotten a bit more crisp and one pub trip that had ended up back at chez Debryn and had carried on into the next morning. Neither of them had demanded too much time of the other, whether by circumstance or design, but this instance would mark the first in a while that Morse had shown up with no warning, and the first ever that he’d been waiting for him while he was out.

After Max had wordlessly let them inside he finally spoke up, “Is this something I should be expecting? You staking out the premises while I’m out?”

“I thought you’d be home. It’s later than usual,” Morse shifted awkwardly in the entry hall with his hands stuffed into his pockets until Max had shed his coat and put down his case, “I was really only waiting a few minutes.”

“Still avoiding the section house then?” Max said with a gruffness that was mostly for effect. He was ignoring the fact that Morse had dedicated any amount of brain power to knowing his regular schedule.

“Is it that obvious?” Morse scratched the back of his neck.

“I don’t mind,” The doctor finally cracked a small smile. He stepped close and rested his hand against the side of Morse’s neck to pull him down into a kiss. Morse always looked pleasantly surprised at the small and easy affections and in that was an unadulterated appreciation. It felt like a revelation to the both of them to be so mutually desired.

“I want some tea,” Max said when he broke away and moved towards the kitchen, “Fancy a cuppa?”

“No dinner?”

“I had dinner at my club, hence the hour. Why? Are you hungry?” Max glanced over his glasses from in front of the stove.

Morse snorted with an amused disgust. His tone ended up mildly mocking, “You would go to a club.”

“Yes,” Max said firmly, “I would.”

“And I’m sure it’s very exclusive,” Morse sneered lightly, “Joining things is rather overblown don’t you think?”

“It’s not the Bullingdon, Morse. If you’re capable of stepping down from your high moral horse for an hour or so some time, you’re welcome to join me. As my _guest_ of course. You can see just how _exclusive_ it is first hand. They will at least let riff raff like you in the door,” Max watched Morse make a face before the detective dropped into a chair and distractedly ran his fingers through his own hair. If he didn’t know better, the sour attitude was a bit too pervasive to be set off by a dinner club. Morse was anxious about something.

“And you didn’t answer me about the food or the tea. I’ve probably got something if you’re hungry.”

Morse sighed. His eating habits may have been some small point of contention already in their undefined relationship, “I’m alright.”

Max went back to the tea, “Weren’t you looking at a flat today?”

Morse hissed a bit through the side of his teeth, face twisting with accurately pinpointed annoyance, “This one was a bit too far off I think, and the neighbor is apparently a drummer in some sort of… pop group. _Aspiring_ drummer.” He rolled his eyes.

With the kettle on the range, Max fetched cups, “You know you can stay here if you need a place.”

Morse’s mouth opened.

Max interrupted, “Offered with pure intentions, Morse. I do have an extra bedroom. I know you lodged with Strange last year and I imagine the pair of us get on a bit better.” It was the understatement of the year but he did mean it genuinely.

“The offer is appreciated,” Morse seemed honest in that, “But I need my own space. And pure intentions doesn’t mean it’d stay that way. It’s really not even that way now...”

Max gave him a bemused look.

“Besides,” Morse continued, “I’ve actually been thinking that instead of looking further out for something to let, perhaps I should be looking closer. For something to own.”

The doctor was surprised. Buying a property seemed very permanent for a man like Morse. He was shrewd with his money and his time and his only moments of impulsive stupidity came when there was danger, not when faced with long term investments.

“It’s probably time for settling down,” Morse’s phrasing felt important and his wide eyes were penetrating, “A commitment. What do you think?”

 

* * *

 

From the flatbed of the truck, with no view at all of what was happening, Max was convinced he was going to die. Come into the world alone and go out of it, just like Jago so pompously proclaimed, because if Morse was there by himself like some sort of idiotic white knight, then there was no hope for either of them. The arrival of the City Men, hearing Thursday and Strange’s steady voices, was only a small reassurance. When the side panel of the truck dropped to reveal him trussed up like a holiday roast to all present, he also got his own view of the danger. Max’s lifetime avoidance of violence and confrontation had karmically collected and concentrated into this singular event. Now he was a helpless spectator and victim to something akin to the Alamo happening in front of him, right here, in a sand quarry in Wicklesham.

“It's alright, Doctor! We'll have you home safe soon!”

Max found a second wind from Morse’s breathlessly insistent confidence, and pulled from a well of anxious energy as the showdown took place. He found himself waiting for the first shot or the first move and the scene seemed to be frozen with tension until the police cruisers finally came wailing in with backup. Jago and his goons, in their self-importance, hadn't been expecting interference and when they ran, the squad followed, and Max was left alone again. With no looming villains he finally rolled onto his back, no matter the pain of laying on his arms. He looked up at the circling birds and breathed deep from the open white sky.

The gunshots cracked in a shivering echo across the yard while Max was being untied. A constable had just freed his wrists when they shattered the silence and Max found his usual instinct to chase the violence, to help and treat and heal, was gone. Instead he jumped and flinched like a skittish colt as the officers around him all leapt to attention and called out for ambulances. The last reserves of Max's energy had run dry and his mind and body were dulled to automatic motion. He felt very much like he was moving through treacle by the time he was being passed around from officer to ambulance and back.

“I’m fine,” He told the first uniform.

“Just tired,” to the paramedic.

And when another officer sat calmly beside him and asked if he could make a statement, Max only nodded dumbly, “Of course.”

He handled the inquiry like a wind up automaton but internally, each progressive question chipped bits of his patience and tolerance away, each moment he was still standing there wore on him, and he realized with a detached sort of observance that he was waiting for the Cowley boys to reappear. He was waiting to see how it all played out. He needed to know that none of them suffered on his account, as selfish and egotistical as that felt.

Then the stretchers arrived. Max felt like he was back in his residency, the still suddenly broken by a mad rush of people, a whirlwind of activity, things being yelled above his head and around him, and he was helpless in his wide eyed exhaustion to assist. The first bundled body passed him - gun shot they said - and DCI Box’s jaw was unmistakable even from a reasonable distance. Critical condition they said - and then they were all gone in a scream of sirens as quickly as they had come.

There was no fanfare for the second body. The stretcher was carried solemnly, covered toe to head, which only meant one thing. Max was sure then, positive, that it had to be Morse. He would have been the only one to throw himself in front of a bullet like some bloody hero. The scenario spun up in his mind, Box arriving to Jago’s call, the Cowley squad suddenly at a disadvantage, guns wielded cavalier like some sort of Wild West shootout-

“You all right?”

The blur of the world without his glasses seemed to pinpoint suddenly and when Max turned and saw Morse there in that lovely blue coat of his, with a concerned and worried smile, he saw him in razor sharp clarity. Max felt like his heart was in his throat and the surety that Morse had been shot turned into sudden shame at the thought. Every ounce of his intelligence seemed to leak out of him and his stomach felt like it plummeted to his toes before it boomeranged back into place with rush of embarrassed heat.

“Oh,” Max blinked, took a few steps towards him, and nodded, “Yes.”

Morse’s eyes travelled over him and Max knew he looked exactly as bad as he felt, but the man only smiled and produced his glasses from his pocket.

“Oh,” He’d almost forgotten about them. But Morse had kept them it seemed, safe, for him. Max was more grateful than he could ever say. So he didn’t, “Thanks.”

Max took a deep breath and glanced down at the spectacles when he plucked them up. He had to look away from the man’s face for fear of what was showing on his own, “Cracked.”

Max had more letters behind his name than he knew what to do with, more certificates on his office wall than was likely necessary, and a vocabulary enough to put most Oxford scholars to shame yet all he could muster now, in front of the man who likely saved his life, in front of the man who made him feel a way he hadn’t felt in a very long time, was a frustrated exhalation of, “Bugger.”


	6. F I N A L E

“If you don’t mind, sir,” Morse pushed his fists further into his coat pockets and exhaled deeply. It was barely mid-morning and he’d already be glad to see the day over. Unfortunately, the chaos at Wicklesham only meant that the work was far from over, “I’d like to get Dr. Debryn home.”

Thursday and Bright talked close in the muddy yard as they conferred on what steps needed to be followed back at Castle Gate and who they deemed safe within the higher ups to contact. It was already too big a situation for the administration to ignore but it would still need to be handled very carefully for them all to make it out on top. They each had a renewed lift in their chins and command in their tones and there was no doubt who the authority on site was.

Morse’s request was met with a nod from his governor, “You might want to get in a few hours too, Morse. I know you were up all night.”

“I’m fine,” Morse straightened. He was tired, in some distant sort of way, but there was still a lot to do and the adrenaline was holding up. Right now all he could think about was getting Max home as he’d promised.

“Well I don’t want to see you round the station until a bit later. Wash up at least. And get something in your belly, _of the solid variety,_ ” Thursday waited for Morse to at least nod an agreement before he nodded back, “Alright then, mind how you go.”

It had been barely past dawn when he’d arrived for the arranged meeting and Morse had been up all night, wired and buzzing, making calls. He’d struggled for months against involving himself too deeply in Strange’s conspiracy when it was brought to him. Keeping his head down seemed the only way to survive this new era of cement block offices and thuggish superiors. Morse had even resigned himself to the fact that Thursday was no longer within the circle of trust sheerly out of his vicinity to Box, but then Max was taken and his doubts didn’t matter anymore. Skating under the radar wasn’t an option. Max had been his constant, his one true friend, and he would throw his pride out the window and prostrate himself if need be to bring the doctor safe and home. He’d kept the man’s glasses in his pocket all the while, a reminder and comfort and a worry all rolled in one. They were a reminder of what he had to lose, a comfort to have a piece of Max with him, and a reinforcement of the unshakeable worry about what the villains could be doing with him.

“Max,” The doctor was finishing some water given to him by the ambulance men. When he turned to his name, he looked surprised to hear it coming from Morse outside of the privacy of his home, “I can run you back.”

“Oh, you don’t have to bother yourself. I can go with the ambulance. I’ve got to stop by the hospital for my things-” Max ran a hand up and over an elbow before he realized a sleeve garter still pinched around his brachialis. The revelation made him blink with distraction before he hooked a thumb and pulled it off.

“I’ve your jacket and case. They had to process the lab for prints so I thought I’d...” Morse shrugged lightly. Max had a distant look in his eye and a sort of flatness when he spoke, a distinct lack of the usual clever spark. Perhaps he was just tired, maybe in shock, but Morse couldn’t help his gnawing worry.

“Ah,” Max rocked on his heels and then finally nodded. He seemed at a loss for much else, “Home then.”

As they walked to the car, Morse spoke low and private, “I said I would get you home safe and I fully intend to do that.”

Max adopted a soft, furrowed look of confusion, “You’re a chivalrous fool, Morse.”

Morse took it as a compliment.

Neither of them spoke again, not for the rest of the walk or the drive, though once they were on their way Morse glanced at Max in the mirrors every few minutes. The doctor’s eyes were cast out the window and his hands fiddled slowly and methodically with his own red wrists and the loose, unbuttoned cuffs of his sleeves.

“The corpse?” Debryn didn’t speak up again until they were outside of his home. His eyes were still glued to the window, his front gate, the path and his distant trellis and front door.

“Jago,” Morse turned off the engine, “The police cover ups, the drugs, it was all Jago.”

“Ah,” Max said again. He paused and frowned, “I’m sorry you didn’t get your man then.”

Morse found that curious. They’d stopped the crime ring and Jago wouldn’t be continuing to smear the reputation of the police or deepening the corruption. They hadn’t got him under lock and key but the worst case scenario also hadn’t been realized and the rest of the bad seeds would be rooted out in time, “He got what was coming to him.”

Max frowned further and looked at him with a sunken gaze that was only intensified by the slight bruising showing around his nose and eyes, “There were already too many bodies, Morse.”

As Max pushed himself up and out of the car, Morse felt ashamed of himself. Perhaps his heart had hardened more than he'd realized. A few years ago, Jago’s death would have felt like a rather devastating loss. Morse also realized that between the victims of the tower collapse, a string of overdoses over the past few months, and this entire grand conspiracy, that Max may have reached his limit. He’d seen more death this week alone than many would see in a lifetime and on top of that he’d been roughed up and kidnapped. Morse still didn’t know what exactly they’d done to him but he could see the effect even now.

Morse realized then just how strong the man was, how strong he’d been all along, stronger than anyone would ever really know, and he’d never admired him more.

The house was silent when they finally got inside, as if it awaited Max with bated breath, and Morse felt as if his own presence was a disturbance. He was loathe to make a noise as he closed the door, but his worries hadn’t been abated yet and he didn’t want to leave Max alone until he was sure he was alright. Somewhere in his head he knew this behavior was simply residual but he wanted to hear it from the other’s own lips. He set Max’s kit aside, hung his coat for him and when he turned, finally empty handed, Morse found the doctor watching him very carefully. Max was still and his hands were clenched at his sides in the familiar protected posture that was usually reserved for standing amongst a bunch of taller, dismally unintelligent detectives at a crime scene.

“I thought it was you,” Max look dismayed and uneasy, his voice low, “Jago’s body. I was sure it was you.”

Morse exhaled then, half of his tension releasing in one breath, “I’ve never been more happy to see you wrong.”

“I’m rarely wrong,” Max’s brow furrowed deeply.

“Yes, you’re the visible personification of absolute perfection,” Morse’s teasing quotation was a bit of a test that Max, thankfully, passed. He’d never been so happy to see the doctor glare at him. Somehow knowing that he retained his bite and edge made Morse feel much better. Max with thorns was the Max that Morse knew and loved best.

_Loved._

It was a stray thought that became an all encompassing realization. Perhaps he’d been tiptoeing around it for weeks, he couldn’t pinpoint the feeling even now, but the thought sank its hooks in and the more he paid it mind, the more he knew it to be true. It flooded him. It rippled through every inch of him, tickling through his extremities and back to settle in his chest. Morse couldn’t help a smile with the giddy internal rush, but now was not the time and Max was in no state to deal with him mooning, so Morse tucked it away. He bit back his grin and tucked his hands into his pockets and waited while his insides fluttered around like a lovesick fool.

Max was unaware of Morse’s miraculous revelations. He wasn’t even looking at him, instead he was looking at the entry hall and off to the sitting room and eventually, after a deep inhale and exhale, he finally sagged, “Morse, I’m sure you’ll think me a bloody fool but, well, I’m at a bit of a loss. With all of this. I’m- I don’t quite know what to say or feel or even do.”

Morse finally stepped forward and extended his hands for Max, waiting on some acceptance that the contact was alright, “Well, it turns out I’m a bit of an expert on needing to be looked after.”

“So does that mean I’m playing you, and you’re playing me?” Max stepped forward into the other man’s waiting arms with no hesitation. His hands settled on Morse’s waist, then as if realizing he was truly solid and safe and _there,_ one of them slid up his chest until his fingers brushed the pulse point at Morse’s throat. His pulse jumped at the touch.

Morse couldn’t help tilt his head lightly towards the contact. He sported a small, crooked smile and once more did his best Max impression, _“When’s the last time you’ve eaten, Debryn? Drank something? Slept? Did you even think about that before you went off and got yourself kidnapped?”_

The doctor managed a small amused smile, “Now _that_ actually sounds like me. I suppose I should sneer in disgust at the insinuation and say it was all in the cause of duty?”

Morse smiled a bit wider to see Max relaxing, to see a spark of life in him after everything. His hands finally lifted to cradle the other man’s face.

“Morse,” Max sighed in near despair and tilted head self consciously “I’m a fright-”

“I don’t care about that,” Morse’s voice dropped and every restrained bit of worry and care finally broke through in a trembling exhale, “I was terrified when they took you.”

Max’s hand bunched in the shirt on Morse’s hip as if he were afraid he would slip away and he searched the man’s face for any sign that he was putting him on. There was a mild fear and desperation in his eyes that Morse had never seen before but he needed the other to understand just how serious he was. He wasn’t sure the proper way to tell Max the depth of his concern or the truth of his words, so he kissed him. He kissed it onto his lips, poured it into him with each shared breath, beat his love and care against him with every pounding of his heart. It didn’t matter that Max was still stained with his own blood, that Morse could taste it in his mouth, that he smelled like the steely industrial tang of the quarry and was sporting more than a days worth of stubble. He was himself, steadfast and warm and alive, and there under his hands.

Both men let out shaky breaths when they finally parted and rested their foreheads together.

“Morse-” Max sounded rather hopeless again and Morse didn’t like it.

“You don’t have to say anything, Max. Just tell me you’ll be alright…” His thumbs brushed the man’s cheeks with care.

“I’ll be alright,” Max sighed and cupped Morse’s cheek in reassurance, “I will. I'm just tired.”

They hadn’t even left the front hall yet and Morse, with the worry now ebbing and the remainder of tension now fled his body, turned his face and kissed the palm of Max’s hand. It brought a slight flush to the doctor’s cheeks and turned the tops of his ears red. Morse rested his hands on Max’s shoulders and manually turned the man to go into the house proper.

“Then you should sleep. But food wouldn't go amiss or a bath.”

“I’m not sure that I can eat yet.”

“Then a soak and a nap at least.”

“Morse,” Max finally straightened and pulled away from Morse’s hands. The firm line was back in his shoulders and spine and he pursed his lips as he glanced over the rims of his cracked spectacles, “You’re being a fusspot. I think I can handle all that on my own.”

“Right,” Morse nodded and restrained his own amusement, “I’ve got to go back to the station for a bit, but I’ll bring back dinner later. How does that sound?”

“What sort of dinner?” Max hovered at the foot of the stairs and narrowed his eyes.

“The kind that I already know carries the seal of Debryn approval,” Morse pursed his own lips.

Max’s brows lifted as if he didn’t quite buy it but the dubious glance only endeared him to Morse even more. The doctor took a few more steps up and paused again, “You called me Max. At the quarry. In public.”

“Did I?” Morse feigned a sudden loss of memory, “Well it is your name, isn't it?”

Max couldn't help a wry smirk at his cheek. He turned again and took another step before pausing one last time, “Do me a favor and put some music on before you leave? Your choice. Whatever you fancy. I’m not very keen on silence at the moment.”

Morse was happy to oblige and after Max disappeared up the stairs, Morse selected a record. He only sat himself down for a moment as _Lakmé_ started to play but when Max popped back down a couple minutes later to fetch a bottle of displaced painkillers, he found the detective asleep in a chair in the sitting room with his head back, his breathing soft and even, and the sounds of the Flower Duet slowly filling every inch of the house.

 

* * *

 

The front door was unlocked for Morse when he returned that evening with a bag of take away and a bottle of claret. Even though the fall evening was chilly, the windows of the first floor were all open and a crisp breeze brought the aromatic scents of the outdoors through the living area with every gust. The record player was still spinning but this time it was Max’s choice and Dinah Washington's voice lilted husky and bittersweet.

 _Mad about the boy_  
_I know it's stupid to be mad about the boy_  
_I'm so ashamed of it but must admit the sleepless nights I've had_  
_About the boy_

“Max?” Morse looked in on the parlor, the dining room and eventually the kitchen but his voice was lost in the music which had been turned up loud enough to filter through the entire house and drift softly out the open windows. When no answer came to his call, a prickle of cold fear crept up on him at the unlikely idea that Max had been taken away again in some revenge scheme by one of McGyffin’s web of criminal colleagues. It was foolish and knee jerk, exacerbated by the last forty-eight hours, but the feeling washed out of him in a rush when he found the back door open and the doctor outlined in the golden cast of the patio light. He was facing the garden instead of the house so Morse set the food down and fetched them some glasses before joining him.

 _Lord knows I'm not a fool girl_  
_I really shouldn't care_  
_Lord knows I'm not a school girl_  
_In the flurry of her first affair_

“There you are,” Morse turned a chair for himself before he took a seat. Max looked much more himself now. He was rested and bathed and the cuts along his hairline were barely even noticeable. Even the bruising around his nose and eyes appeared to be lessened with a few hours sleep. The only difference were his glasses which had been replaced by a solid pair of black frames that must have been a spare.

Max’s brows lifted and he smiled small, appraising Morse in a sweeping glance. He’d also bathed and changed since he’d left that afternoon, “Everything go alright?”

“Mr. Bright is back in charge of CID, Inspector Thursday is acting DCI, and Strange's Forward Planning Committee rubbish is over,” Morse held up the bottle he'd brought, Max nodded approval, and he opened it.

“And you?”

“Out of the basement,” Morse grunted lightly as he pulled out the cork, “Back to bagman.”

“God is in his heaven and all's right with the world,” Max unfolded his hands and accepted a glass of the wine when offered.

 _Will it ever cloy_  
_This odd diversity of misery and joy_  
_I'm feeling quite insane and young again_  
_And all because I'm mad about the boy_

“It's fifty-fifty with Box,” Morse said after a sip, “Thursday reckons he could do with a second chance. All the concern about how close they became wasn't unfounded. Seems to think he might just be a good bloke who went astray.”

“And what do you think?”

“I only know what I've seen. He came around when the chips were down. Likely saved me and Thursday a bullet each… But could you weigh his heart against a feather?” Morse shrugged and shifted to watch Max where he sat.

“Could any of us?” Max sipped his wine and seemed to take a moment to enjoy it before his eyes cut to Morse again.

 _So if I could employ_  
_A little magic that will finally destroy_  
_This dream that pains me and enchains me_  
_But I can't because I'm mad_  
_I'm mad about the boy_

The last strains of the trumpet faded out and silence reigned as the A side of the record ended. The breeze kicked up and both men noticeably shivered but when Morse glanced at Max, the doctor was back to looking at the sky again.

“Isn’t it a bit too chilly to be outside?”

“It was colder last night,” Max said with that distant tone returning, “They had me in a small room on-site. There was a window but it was too high to really see. I could hear the rain but I couldn’t see the sky.”

Morse hadn't been sure if Max would want to talk about what had happened so now that he was speaking about it, he decided silence was prudent.

“Tied up with my own bloody tie, would you believe it?” Max huffed. “At least they gave me a chair. But all I could think was that it would’ve been nice to see the sky. The moon. Sun. Anything.”

Max sipped his wine and set it down, turning his head to look at Morse again, “When you showed up alone... I couldn't see you, obviously, but I knew it was you. Well, I was positive we were both dead.”

Morse’s brows rose in disbelief and he huffed sarcastically, “Well, that’s reassuring.”

“You versus those four? _Really_ , Morse. Even if I hadn’t been tied up like a damsel it would have been a slaughter.”

“It worked out in the end,” Morse shrugged, “I did have a plan.”

Max looked like he was rallying to either complain or thank him but Morse had a thought, interrupted him, and stood, “Wait there.”

Max’s mouth closed and he sunk back into his chair looking rather perplexed when Morse went back into the house.

Morse first went and fetched several blankets and then, on his way back out, flipped the record and turned it back on. Dinah Washington once more sang out, this time even more appropriately, _September In the Rain_. When he reemerged from the house he didn’t sit. Instead he nodded towards the garden, “Come on.”

“What?” Max blinked, looked at the blankets, and back to Morse’s face, “Where’d you get those?”

“Linen closet.”

“How’d you know where I keep my linens?”

“I’m a detective,” Morse said with amused exasperation. He then walked out, over the stonework, and into the garden. He found a spot in the center, just big enough between the flower beds so they could sit, and spread out the first blanket.

“What are you doing?” Max was behind him, wine abandoned and music faint as they put distance between themselves and the house.

“No chairs,” Morse was spreading out a second blanket on top of the first, “No rooms,” he sat down and stretched out his legs before he offered Max his hand to join him, “And plenty of sky.”

Max turned pink again, the second time in a day, and Morse decided he liked being able to do that. The doctor took his hand and eased himself down but the transition had his shoulders twinging and the moment of pain shown across his face.

“Alright?” Morse shifted to make room.

“Arms aren’t meant to be bound behind a person that long,” Max saw the concern etched into Morse’s features, “I’ll be fine.”

Morse was dubious but did finally drop onto his back. He wriggled lightly until he was comfortable and Max settled on his back beside him. They were shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, and Morse’s fingers crawled until they found Max’s and wrapped around them.

Above them the sky spread out in all directions. There were patches of cloud, grey and heavy against the black-blue, but when they passed it was like infinity was spread out before them. The breeze wasn’t as harsh on the ground but as it blew the flowers swayed around them and with it their invigorating scents hit him anew. Close together like this it was much warmer and Morse thought there was nowhere he’d rather be.

“Ah,” Morse pointed up at one of the brightest stars visible and dragged his finger along, “The Great Fish.”

“Piscis Austrinus,” Max supported, giving Morse a look, “Are we an amateur astronomer as well? I got the impression you weren’t much interested in the movements of the heavens.”

“My father wasn’t an overly educated man but did have a bit of an obsession with Captain Cook and all things that went along with it. Including celestial navigation,” Morse and his father had gotten along alright for most of his life, only the later years when he was sick and Morse was gone and the income had run dry did things get ugly, but it was easy to forget now that it was so long past.

“ _Here, in this jolly-boat they graced, Were food and freedom, wind and storm, While, fowling-piece across his waist, Cook mapped the coast, with one eye cocked for game_ ,” Morse smiled and glanced over at Max, “Thankfully poetry and Cook overlap here and there.”

“I’m not familiar,” Max admitted.

“The Five Visions of Captain Cook by Kenneth Slessor,” Morse looked back at the sky, “My father may be dead but he branded me eternally with his niche interest, whether I like it or not.”

“Branded,” Max snorted, “is a strong word.”

Morse hummed. Max had no idea how permanently he’d been marked by the legacy and he played momentarily with the idea of sharing his Christian name but as the silence pulled out longer, Morse found the moment passed by like so many things often did when they went unsaid. If Max wanted to know, he would ask, but he never had. It was strange to feel some sort of affection for that, to have someone abide his wishes so fully that they resisted the pull of curiosity.

“Morse,” Max’s voice was low when he finally broke the silence again, “You saved my life today.”

Morse turned to look at him, “We all did.”

“No,” Max turned to meet his eyes, “They came for you. _You_ came for me.”

Morse couldn’t argue it. He’d have come for anyone and the showdown would have been inevitable, if not today then another in the near future, but there was a kernel of truth in the idea that Morse had been pushed by Max’s abduction.

Max shifted closer then and kissed him and Morse was overwhelmed by his feelings yet again. The smell of Max, the taste of him. He was no longer tainted by his captivity and Morse relished in him as he was meant to be. He'd learned over these past weeks to be familiar with the feel of the man, the angles where they fit together, where his hands liked to rest and what sides he favored. Here, just the pair of them together with the wide open sky and the swaying of the plants, he never wanted to leave. The chill evening was forgotten for the warmth generated by their bodies and Morse rolled on his side to put an arm around Max and pull him closer.

Max broke the kiss but didn’t pull away. He breathed as if he were also overcome and their noses brushing intimately as he searched for words, before finally he murmured guiltily against Morse’s lips, “I feel selfish even having you here.”

Morse drew back an inch to look the other man in the eye, “Why?”

The doctor’s brow knitted in concern, “Because they knew about-” he seemed to search for the correct phrasing, “-something between us. The bearded bloke said as much, without really saying it. The abduction was superfluous. Doesn’t that bother you?”

“I knew Jago was watching me in some capacity. He was very well informed on my whereabouts,” Morse admitted. He hadn’t thought that coming to Max’s could be an issue. In retrospect, the danger hadn’t really seemed relevant until it all came to head. Now he realized, too late, that it was likely his own fault that the doctor was taken, “I’m sorry. It’s my fault.”

Max frowned further. A hand coming up to brush Morse’s face, “It’s because of you they kept me alive. I knew too much already. They could have easily killed me right there in the lab, no different than our librarian. There's no lack of deadly weapons in the morgue arsenal.”

The thought of that was almost too much to bear and Morse pressed close and kissed him again. This time they didn't part for a while, tangled up together with a heated and delayed desperation.

“Don't regret this,” Morse breathed finally as he smoothed back Max's hair, “I don't.”

“I couldn't if I tried,” Max sighed.

Morse could only smile, a brilliant flash of one, slipping through his personal restraint and once again making Max turn pink. They finally shifted onto their backs again, though this time Max found his way into the crook of Morse's arm and lay his head against his shoulder.

“No more existential crisis about the stars or the nature of humanity?” Max folded Morse's arm across his chest and tangled his fingers with his own.

“Trust your heart if the seas catch fire, live by love though the stars walk backward,” Morse replied before he realized quite what he said and in response, Max said nothing. Morse smirked, “Not to say I won’t again in the future… have a crisis.”

He earned a light elbow for that.

“I'm not going anywhere, besides,” Morse turned his head to press his lips to Max’s hair, “I got call back about a house finally. I’ve just to go by and sign the papers and pickup the keys.”

“Congratulations!” Max’s tone was genuine, “Where is it?”

“The top of the Banbury Road.”

“Wasn’t there a double overdose around there recently..?”

“The same place,” Morse smirked.

“My god, Morse,” Max laughed, “For someone who hates corpses you’ve got a knack for surrounding yourself with them.”

“Maybe,” Morse chuckled just as the breeze kicked up again. They both felt it this time, a chill rippling across them as the flora waved above their heads. The music was so faint that he couldn't identify the words anymore and Morse knew that they’d likely need to go inside soon, but he wanted to soak this up as long as he could.

“It’s a good size place and I got a decent price on account of the sordid history,” Morse heard Max snort, “Just needs a coat or two of paint.”

“Is handyman another of your less touted skills?”

“A couple beers and some dedicated thought and I’m sure I could figure it out.”

Max turned again to look him in the eye, this time a smile touching his lips, and those fascinating dimples were in full force, “So I’m stuck with you then, eh?”

“Afraid so,” Morse was smitten.

“Do you even own a stick of furniture?”

“Small things. Not enough for a whole house. A shopping trip will be in order,” Morse propped himself up on an elbow on his side, looking down on the doctor who was still on his back, “It may even have space for a garden.”

“And I suppose you’d like my help with that?” Max smirked up at him.

“If you’ve got the time,” Morse smiled, “Maybe some of those troublesome roses.”

“Only if you'll take care of them,” Max leaned up to steal another kiss.

Morse returned it before he settled onto his back again and tucked Max against him, “How about some night-blooming jasmine?” The wind gusted again bringing the fading sounds of trumpets and those lovely late season garden smells, “I've become rather fond.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I put much too much inordinate research into some of this fic so please enjoy some of the musical fruits of my labors. My husband agrees that Dinah Washington is just the type of thing we both can imagine Max listening to while cooking, baking or relaxing.  
> [Lakmé - Duo des fleurs (Flower Duet)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C1ZL5AxmK_A)  
> [Dinah Washington - Mad About the Boy](https://open.spotify.com/track/76pKWLPf8HEY9LEDOLKjkw?si=84TvujQrTDuveOiqmqIrVg)  
> [Dinah Washington - September In the Rain](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fk-jh3xocd0)
> 
> There's also an [accompanying piece of art](http://rejamart.tumblr.com/post/184285490579/night-blooming-jasminemaxmorse-commission-for) by a very good friend, inspired by the end of the fic! Thanks for reading :D


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